I was never afraid of death until the day I got out of prison.
A year less a day of my life had been swallowed up Inside. Three hundred and sixty four bloated days. A stretch of endless time filled with cigarettes, stupid prattling, and re-reading of the same tired, beaten books. An eternity of depression and degradation punctuated only by unpredictable senseless brutality and, twice, sudden relocation to another distant and slightly more luxurious cage.
And then suddenly it was over and my mom was waiting for me in the same brown station wagon I remembered from Before. Not for me, being fetched from the gates by old lovers or hombres. And she was smiling and waving and there was a paper bag in the passenger seat full of chocolate and books and a bottle of wine and a dozen little gifts carefully selected to let me know that she knew who I was. She didn't quite, but it was close enough to be touching. As I climbed in and pulled the door shut behind me, it creaked slightly as it had ever since I got in that accident when I was sixteen. And then it hit me. One year. Infinity. And it was over. That is when I got the fear of death. That moment when I realized that all finite lengths of time are equal.
#
"Three months," she says. I look up at her from where I am stretched out starfish on the floor, trying to touch every naked inch of me to the hardwood. She sits perched half-lotus on the green armchair we found on the curb. Her black hair limply frames her as she leans forward to peer down at me, blonde roots just starting to betray her.
I say nothing.
She'll be gone three months. I know she wants me to say that it's not that long. She wants me to tell her it will be gone in a flash. But at the same time she wants me to fear it. Just a little.
But I've drifted back to that time Inside. I try to pretend that it's not all there is to me, the filter through which the rest of me must pass, second to second. And it's not. Not in the way you might think. I served my time. I survived. I didn't grow hard and I didn't lose myself. But I lost time. I lost more than a year less a day. I lost it all.
I'm thinking about the last morning. The three hundred and sixty fourth time I lined up for breakfast. I remember thinking: This is it. The last breakfast line. Never again do I have to do this.
And now I'm thinking about that transcendental fuck, not ten minutes in the past. And I'm wondering: Was that it? The last time I cum inside her. Will I never do this again?
I say nothing.
Three months is a long time. Three months is nothing at all. I believe these things. I should say them, but I couldn't make them come out right. Not the way she wants to hear them. I couldn't manage the anticipation of pain overshadowed by unreasonable hope. Whenever I talk about time, my voice drips death.
"Do you think we'll make it?" she asks.
Finite time has captured me. There will always be a last time. And you'll never know it.
I say nothing.
Her plane leaves in four hours. And even as I was fucking her, I was thinking: Is this it? The last thrust. The last groan. The last sweaty collapse.
Can you imagine how that takes the joy out of it?
"Say something!" she says.
If I close my eyes and open them, one second will have passed. I'll close my eyes and open them and it will be a year. Just wait. That's all there is to it. Just wait.
I say nothing.
"Fuck you," she says.
She pulls on her clothes in silence, stealing moments to glare at me. As her sweater goes down, my mind notes it. Right there, I think, the last glimpse of her nipple?
She grabs her bag and storms down the stairs. I count her footfalls. Fourteen. And then, the last time she takes those stairs?
Has that not even occurred to her? One more thing done for the last time. One more experience closed off. One more of death's little bookkeepings. She slams the door. For the last time.
And quietly I say: "Three months is a long time. Three months is nothing at all."